For Them We Fight and Die: A Clone Wars Chronicle
by Rex B-12
Summary: Of the elite clone troopers in the Republic's Grand Army, none were deadlier and more battle-hardened than the Advanced Recon Commandos. This chronicle records stories of heroism redacted from the public.
1. Duty

**I**

They who hold this hill hold Ryloth, so the saying goes. Republic Intelligence proclaimed this site as 'Hill 837', after the elevation displayed in Republic Grand Army maps.

The more poetic and sentimental native Twi'lek dubbed the collection of humid valleys and hilly dry broadleaf forest as 'Hiku Jehsa Tu'rok', the Hills of Misery. Any Twi'lek, whatever their color, who walks these grounds would have their skin turn flushed, dry and hot to the touch. Chief among them is hill 'Turin', hill 837.

"They who hold this hill hold Ryloth." While it is by no means a direct interpretation, Turin, and by extension the whole Hills of Misery, is key in occupying Tann Province. It was here that the warrior sub culture of the Twi'leks found its hallowed ground. So long as their warrior spirit is alive and burning, there will always be a Twi'lek who'd tame the storm for Ryloth rather than to ride it out.

The twilight sun has begun to fall in the horizon, while Ryloth's largest moon started to rise. Akaan and his four brothers exited their landspeeders, unloaded their blasters and packs and made their way to the rendezvous. By this time, the hot and suffocating air has turned cool and breezy.

All around Akaan were members of the Resistance already on site. Not only Twi'leks, but Humans and Rodians who had settled down on Ryloth as well. The brisk and jaunty evening weather had brought complacency upon the 30 or so fighters. Some were leisurely talking with one another, their weapons out of arm's reach. None had their eyes upon the direction of likely danger. Their layers of defences were barely dug in. And their Emplacement Weapon Heavy Blaster was not manned.

And so Akaan drew himself up to his full 1.83 meters, spread his broad shoulders, straightened his ramrod of a back and got to work.

A young green skinned Twi'lek sporting a DL-44, his lekku hanging down his back, approached Akaan and his team. He was lax in his stride towards the white-clad soldiers, but his expression was stern.

He was _breaking silhouette_.

He hadn't finished his greeting when a resounding crack suddenly echoed throughout the neighbouring valleys. The young Twi'lek fell face first, sending dirt and pebbles flying. Twice more the same cracks of blaster fire reverberated. Fighters scrambled for their weapons and ducked for cover. Akaan did his best to take reign of the chaos. His brothers, in contrast to the whole debacle, were orderly, cool and controlled. One of them, a scoped blaster rifle in his hands, broke away and melted into the forest.

Wisps of silver-grey smoke danced their way through the thick broadleaf forest, filling the resistance fighters' defensive position with dense clouds as Akaan and his men popped smoke grenades to hinder the enemy snipers' line of sight. To the resistance fighters around Akaan, the scene was frantic, hazy and obscured. Not to Akaan.

His range-finder, mounted on his helmet, allowed him to see thermal figurines, coming ever closer cutting through the swaths of ghosts hanging in the air. Wiry humanoid forms, elongated heads atop their slender necks, tall hulking figures, mechanical in their sprints, came racing through the ridge. Akaan shouted for the fighters to stay down.

Akaan fired his WESTAR-M5 blaster in short bursts. For most men, the adrenaline rush would hinder their accuracy, their breath would be sporadic. Not for Akaan and his brothers. In short order, one by one the thermal images fell to systematic slaughter.

* * *

Not 150 meters away, the thunderous roars of blaster fire tore through the clicking and clanking steps of battle droids. Fresh soldiers and lesser warriors might flinch in the franticness and excruciatingly loud noises, but not Kyr.

With a modified DC-15 at the ready on prone firing position, his armoured form was covered by a layer of mesh, its material coinciding with the dirt and dry leaves which Kyr was laying upon, granting him near invisibility.

The enemy had the numbers. But Kyr and his compatriots have the terrain on their side. The droids, with all the resources they were able to draw, could not manoeuvre their tanks through the hills of Hiku Jehsa Tu'rok. And the Tann Province is rife with hidden resistance anti air positions, which have been diligent in hindering and disrupting separatist troop movements. But tanks and low altitude air assault units are not the only instruments of terror the droids have in their arsenal. They have commando droids. Heavily armoured, acrobatic and incredibly proficient with their weapons, they make for terrible oppositions to face.

Kyr judged the general direction where the enemy sniper had come from based on how he had seen the resistance leader fall. A hill, 1200 meters away. It was the best option to gain a suitable line of sight, so he adjusted his scope to accommodate the impact from such a distance and got to work.

As a sniper, Kyr was trained to make a canvas out of his environment and take in the details. He knows how to separate the slightest oddity from normalcy, like how when a shadow does not match its surrounding, or when a touch of snow or grass is out of place.

Like how a predator stalks its prey, Kyr was patient, cunning and invisible.

The more nearby and immediate firefight didn't faze him. He had his business. He trusted his brothers to handle the rest.

Then he saw it.

First, was the unnatural way the dry brushes flutter against the wind. Something was blocking them. Kyr switched to the thermal imaging of his scope. Then, a nuance source of heat, easily dismissed by untrained eyes. But to Kyr, it was obvious. A muzzle of a blaster rifle, smoking from having recently been discharged. Kyr drew a mental marker. Commando droids seldom operate alone. It didn't take Kyr long to spot a glint on top of one of the ridges, some of the most obvious spots.

Kyr snapped his rifle at the first sniper he had spotted and further adjusted the scope of his rifle for optimal impact. He aimed at where the droid's centre mass should be. Kyr had a plan in the back of his mind. As soon as he fired his first shot, he'll have exposed his position. Kyr slowly squeezed the trigger of his rifle. Kyr flinched as a thunderous crack permeated in the air. Something heavy had fallen and rustled the bushes. Kyr didn't think, he knew that his DC-15A, modified and set for engagements at up to 5 kilometres, had found its mark.

Kyr low crawled to the right, avoiding his original firing position. At this point he expected the opposing sniper might be triangulating his position, all the while looking for his thermal imaging.

Kyr crawled his way into his next firing position, all the while dragging his prone form through jagged rocks and muds, cautious so as to not to disrupt dust and rustle leaves. He was in an awkward position between rock formations. His rifle set rested on a particularly large boulder. For all the sophistication of a commando droid, they are still predictable. Kyr hid his features, and that of his weapon, well. The droid would fail to find his position, it would either bait Kyr with a few shots, or it would reposition itself to gain better overview of the surrounding area. Kyr was quick to identify the possible places the droid will take and adjusted his scope accordingly.

Branches began to rustle and leaves fell. The droid was skilful in hiding itself and its muscle like pads on its limbs and waist allowed it to move in terrifying speed.

But Kyr was quicker in his aim, and deadly accurate to boot.

There, behind the field of dry grass and leaves, was a black figure moving quickly, as swift as a gutkurr racing through a field of tall grass. Kyr snapped his rifle, his scope now fielding the black form, determined to put it down quickly before it had the chance to melt into the forest. Kyr braced his rifle as best he could and squeezed the trigger. The commando droid, with a .05-meter hole through its cranium, was stopped dead in its track. Kyr let out the breath which he had been holding, the exhalation filling him with ecstasy.

Commando droids usually operate in a group of eight, up to twenty in a good day. Kyr had his work cut out for him.

**II**

Fifteen hours. That was how long since the first wave of droids tried to take over Hill 837. Fifteen hours of hectic exchange of fire between Akaan, his team and their native allies, and the endless legion of Separatist battle droids. Twelve times they had tried to fight their way up the slopes of Hill 837. Twelve times Akaan and the others repelled them.

Akaan and a couple of the fighters had carried the young resistance leader into a speeder, of which had sped away towards friendly territory.

It was a jarring struggle, which cost the lives of five resistance fighters, to push the droids' assault off of the ridge and onto the steeply - sloped hills, but finally Akaan and the rest of the small troop regained lost ground and a particularly courageous Twi'lek had managed to take back control of the E-Web Heavy Blaster.

The hills were thick with the remains of battle droids that had tried to approach the post on Hill 837. But the droids' onslaught was one that knew neither pause nor halt. Nor were the droids aware of remorse nor fear.

Eventually the crushing weight of separatist troops proved too much, and in the dead of night, the heavy weapon emplacement, along with the Twi'lek manning it, were decimated by the explosion of a thermal detonator.

Akaan readied his WESTAR-M5, inserting into the cylindrical aperture a new charge pack, his last one. This has been one of the toughest fights he and his brothers had been in.

When word had got out that the Separatists might attempt a daring attack to conquer Tann Province, the Ryloth Resistance Movement quickly send word for aid to the Republic. Unfortunately, a five-man team of ARC Troopers, having just returned to resupply from a long-range reconnaissance, were the only republic troop operating in the area.

And so, a job for a battalion-strength unit, with their own artillery and support elements, fell to a five-man special operations unit and a resistance cell in hasty fighting positions.

If these hills fall, then it would mean months' worth of setback for the Republic's campaign on Ryloth, and a huge loss of morale and resources for the Ryloth Resistance Movement. Akaan wasn't going to let that happen.

Now, with the sun beginning to rise in the horizon, spreading her incandescence in every direction, heavy guns and explosions roared in the distance. Reinforcements were attempting to break through the separatists' line. The _sepies_ were most likely struggling between blocking the highway in the valley and securing a foothold on hill 837. Had the droids been able to bring their full might to bear, then they would have been dead within the first hour of their engagement.

Would have, could have, should have, will be. These are out of context and wholly irrelevant to what mattered: The ground beneath his feet, dry, coarse, steep and rugged; The droids, preparing and hiding behind the hills, an unending personification of murderous intent turned metal; His men, whom Akaan would rather die than to see getting killed.

Akaan's anticipation and sinking adrenaline were interrupted, as lyrics of nature close by and the afternoon winds were broken by a familiar wheeze cutting through the air.

Incoming mortars. Akaan screamed for the others to spread out and lay down.

A shell landed five meters from where Akaan laid, sending dirt, shrapnel and rocks flying in all directions and leaving a small crater in its wake.

Akaan peered his head, feeling as if drowned as the sound wave around him was muffled by his helmet's built-in noise reduction apparatus.

Some of the fighters around him weren't very lucky. Most were experienced enough to know to open their mouths and cover their ears. A couple were screaming profusely on the ground as blood streamed out of their ears and dripped down their chins.

As his auditory senses returned, Akaan registered the clanking steps reverberating behind the ridge, signifying the advent of yet another wave of an endless legion of death-dealing battle droids.

His form hugging the dirt, Akaan had one hand on his WESTAR-M5, whilst another drew his DC-17 sidearm from its holster. As the lanky form of the first B1 came into view, Akaan fired his pistol, sending a bolt right through the B1's central processing unit.

The droids came in droves as they finished waiting out their small artillery pieces, their tactics merely to crush Akaan and his allies through sheer one-sided attrition.

**III**

ARC Trooper Morut took cover behind the ridge as his thermal detonator, thrown into a group of three approaching Super Battle Droids, send hulking metal forms toppling in different directions. Dirt, sand and pebbles were still flying onto Morut's helmet and visor as he primed his next grenade.

This had been the third day in the enemy's attempt to conquer Hill 837. Soothing lavender and brilliant amber had begun to paint the sky, the spreading sunrise long since announced a new day. In the distance, the guns of incoming Ryloth Resistance reinforcements and the beleaguered blockade force of the droids continue to roar, spasmodically, breaking the silence of the morn.

Morut felt as if as each day passes and dawn unwraps the world anew, someone had scratched a mark to denote the time he had left before demise took him. Each day that went by took with it supplies, lives and munitions. Now, with all the last standing defenders' remaining thermal detonators in hand, Morut was all that was standing between Hill 837 and the opposing force.

The endless waves of droids, constant mortar attacks and the sun that continued to radiate heat into the defender's bones had finally taken their tolls. In the dead of the night, the remaining six fighters had loaded their wounded into the speeders and fled. No words had been exchanged and no animosities were given. Having sixteen of your comrades killed and the rest wounded had led realization to reveal itself. The finality of death was a real and tangible substance. To the resistance fighters, dying meant seeing their lives ended before they had even begun. Dreams of a free Ryloth, raising a family or a realized ambition, all cast aside and permanently out of reach through dark nothingness. To Morut, Akaan and their brothers, fleeing means a dereliction of duty. A stain which will forever permeate how the rest of their kin will view them.

When all of his brothers' weapons had spent the last charges of their power packs, Morut was still holding the trigger of his DLT-18c, carefully tracing the exiting blaster bolts and hosing the encroaching droids with fully automatic fire, all the while bracing the powerful recoil with the effort of his toned and chiselled muscles.

Kam'ir had been overwhelmed by B2 Super Battle Droids, a powerful bolt from their built-in double blaster canon having punched through his visor.

A mortar shell had made an impact less than a meter away from where Akaan had stood. Now he was on the ground, battling the urge to pass out as his mouth and chin were wet with blood, coughed out as a pair of broken ribs had punctured his lungs. His helmet laid beside him, filled with grimes and its visor cracked. His armour, partially removed to make way for the medic's battlefield treatment.

Zaix crouched beside Akaan, his exhausting pistol in one hand, ready to send a bolt through the vitals of those who got to close and threaten the life of his patient. Pistol in hand, he held Akaan's writhing form in place. The other held a syringe, the tube carrying bacta foam that grows and solidifies inside the patient's injured body when injected. Zaix plunged the long needle inside Akaan's chest. When Zaix released the medicine, it was like air had introduced itself anew to Akaan. Akaan's breath had steadied, the bacta foam having grown and solidified around his punctured lungs. Be it the elements, shell and ordinance fragmentation or laser bolts, Zaix would protect his patient against them all with his own armoured carcass.

It had been more than half an hour since Morut heard the cracks of Kyr's DC-15A. He feared for the worst.

For hours, Morut took it upon himself to hold the line with his heavy blaster rifle against all odds. It wasn't long before a B2's wrist rocket detonated in his vicinity and put his DLT-18c out of commission. It was then that he collected his comrades' remaining thermal detonators and looted those of the fallen fighters. He was careful to make each of them count.

Now, with Morut down to his last three grenades, he realized that there was no stopping the swiftly encroaching battle droids. One by one, he approached his remaining brothers.

One by one, he handed them his thermal detonators.

As he heard the droids' swift approach closing in, Morut primed his grenade. It was coming, he knew.

He was bred never to hate it, nor to fear or despise it. He feared not knowing what could have been, maybe. But strangely he was absent regret, no. He felt light, like he had only learned how to breathe and felt for the first time the sensation of cool air filling his lungs and permeate his veins. He had done his duty.

Then he heard them. The humming heavy engines of a low altitude air transport, closing in at inhuman speed, cutting the air.

Missiles streaked past Morut and obliterated the enemies closing in with High Explosive Armor Piercing ballistics. The world around him had suddenly gone partially silent as his helmet muffled his hearing. Pain erupted as flying debris bluntly cracked against his fetal armoured form, Zaix covered Akaan as best he could.

Republic support had arrived, cutting a path of destroyed battle droids for resistance reinforcements to come riding in with their blurrgs and armed speeders.

* * *

A gaunt, yet proud Twi'lek sat atop his blurrg, a DL-44 held in one hand. A Twi'lek's lekku was a highly sensitive organ, yet he had tattooed his to symbolize total devotion to the cause of his faction. His name was Cham Syndulla, leader of the resistance against the Separatist occupation on Ryloth.

When Cham rushed Hill Turin with his force of 230 fighters, he had expected an uphill battle of attrition against an entrenched Separatist position.

What he got were 3 clones, a thermal detonator in each of their hands, ready to blow themselves up rather than let the droids approach the post.

His men had recovered another one of the defenders. He had been knocked out near a collection of missile fragments fired from a rocket launcher, his armour riddled with scorch marks.

He thanked the Goddess that they were still alive. As he gazed upon the Republic's warriors, he hoped that his own men would fight as hard for their own homes as they did for his.


	2. Burden of Command

**I**

The roof-mounted mass-driver canon boomed like a thunderous clap, emanating a blinding flash, like sheet-lightning, and hurling the 20 kg projectile at an extreme velocity. The shell imparted kinetic energy and force upon impact, violently shaking the desolate Geonosian surface and decimating the surrounding droids.

140 clone troopers that made up what remained of Abesh Company advanced through the barren red desserts; the terrain lacked cover and were brimming with legions of B1 and B2 battle droids. The Republic's newly acquired soldiers were outnumbered and slogging through masses of droids on an open ground have taken its toll, but the clones' DC-15A rifles outperformed the droids' mass-produced E-5 carbines by a mile. The All-Terrain Transport Enforcer, its giant magnetic feet creating trails of craters in its wake as it plodded in the rear, made the droids' numerical superiority but a mild effect.

Clone troopers armed with Z-6 rotary blaster canons and the AT-TE's four forward laser cannons fixed their targets in place, rendering them unable to aim and fire their weapons effectively. All the while giving the rest of their platoons a viable space to close in and destroy their opposition.

The clone troopers' highly rigorous training in manoeuvring in the presence of the enemy whilst under fire, combined with their AT-TE's powerful mass-driver canon, was apparent, and for every fallen clone, the bolt-ridden carcasses of over a dozen battle droids littered the battlefield.

The Separatist line had apparently broken in the face of the Republic's company-sized assault force. The droids were now engaging the clones in a fighting retreat, leaving behind cadavers of B1s, B2s, and even hailfire droids.

At the forefront of the assault was Jedi Padawan Reana Korris. Her lightsabre, its hilt emitting a blue beam of coherent energy, were magnet for the droids' blaster fire. Red laser bolts continue to assail Reana, but her mastery over Form V allowed her to deflect and return them to their origin with her weapon. With her troops advancing behind her, they cut a swath through the Separatists' line.

Like the foundations that made up a house, a controlled and serene emotion, free of anguish, is the foundation of a Jedi. Reana tried to keep her purpose intact, but inside, she had begun to crumble. As droids after droids fell at her hands, she felt her rage building up. It tasted bitter and un-jedi-like, yet surprisingly satisfying. Her heart ached as she cut down her enemies in anger, yet the bitterness drew her in for another taste, knowing she would be more awake with each kill.

For years Reana had served Jedi Master Sephjet Josall as a padawan learner, learning from him the ways of compassion of the Jedi, yet at the same time never waver nor be soft in the face of adversity. 'A Jedi is a facilitator of peace and a vessel for the alleviation of suffering', he would always say. And now he is gone.

All of those years, being tested by the worst the galaxy had to offer, and bringing about order and justice in the name of the Republic, faded away in but a moment as he was trapped and gunned down alongside the other members of the Jedi Strike Team in the Petranaki Arena. How dare they.

The thought of Master Josall, gallant and paternal, shot dead by mindless machines tormented Reana, her hands tensed around the hilt of her lightsabres. She wanted nothing more than to bring him back, but could she? Lightsabre in hand and more than a hundred dead battle droids in her wake, for a moment she convinced herself that the war would be over if only she would keep pushing on with grim determination.

Reana threw her lightsabre in the direction of a retreating B2 Super Battle Droid, splitting its midriff in two, before retrieving her weapon back with a force pull. Her commlink chimed in. "Commander", it was the clone captain in charge of the company accompanying Reana, addressing her with the rank bestowed upon her within the Republic Military. The captain's tone was grounded, albeit young, still he exuded authority: "The droids are pulling back. What are your orders?"

Reana answered, "Run them down!"

Reana's mind was given to the single-minded pursuit of her goal to destroy the enemy, like in a trance, to the point of extreme narrowness of viewpoint. As she pressed on and deflected blaster fire left and right, the clone troopers struggled to keep up with their newly-appointed commander. "Sir. Protocol states to never pursue an enemy that retreats unexpectedly", another clone trooper chimed in, voicing his concerns. "I suggest caution and that we hold our ground and wait for the rest of the battalion to assault the enemy stronghold"

"Your advice has been noted, CT-1298." The captain answered, his voice was as if holding back the inclination to scold his subordinate: "It would behove you to seldom, if at all, question a Jedi officer in a company-wide channel." While CT-1298 and the rest of the platoon leaders had the right and obligation to advice and voice their opinion to their commanding officer, so too did the captain have the obligation to execute his commander's orders and plans. "You have your orders, Lieutenant", and so they pushed on towards the enemy, their faith in Reana's forceful abilities unwavering.

As Reana went further and further into enemy territory with her soldiers, on either side of them were domes and spires, rocks that arose from the ground as if it reached for the smoke dappled red sky.

Most Geonosian architectures were built like mounds of a colony of insects, integrated into the mesas and buttes that adorn the planet's barren and sandy surface. They were easily mistaken for natural formations, uninhabited and hollow, a great asset of war.

Then from behind the spires they emerged. A deafening, screeching sound cutting through the air as 8 Geonosian starfighters, flying fast and low, home in on Reana like a hawk descending upon its prey.

One of the starfighters fired its laser canon. Reana was pushed off her feet in a pillar of smoke and dust, her robe torn and shredded. A deafening explosion was set off as a fiery ball of orange punched its way out of the AT-TE, as the elite Geonosian caste pilots set off the walker's magazine. Some of the clone troopers lied face down to protect their organs, others never had the chance to as they were splayed like ragdolls in the sun.

As the starfighters finished their strafing run, the sky blackened with the hovering forms of Geonosian warriors, rushing out of their spires and domes to finish off the Reana and the clones.

Reana slowly got up to a knee, each motion a struggle. The rough texture of sand was all over, uncomfortable and confining. But there was also an unpleasant warmth on her body. Adrenaline had hampered the pain, but now it was biting.

The acrid smell of burning metal, the screeches of the encroaching Geonosian warriors and the melody of their sonic blasters, the screams of men dying and being snatched and dragged by the enemy, the erratic cracks of DC-15A rifles ringing in her ears; it was too much. Reana was frozen in place, the ability to move and speak involuntarily absent. This was real, and she was afraid.

An armoured hand reached out and held Reana's shoulder. She looked up to see a clone trooper, his blue markings signifying him as a Lieutenant. Reana reached out with her force sense; CT-1298.

"Commander, are you with us?" The Lieutenant said calmly with a sense of urgency. "We'll get you out of here, Ma'am," he said as she answered him with a silent trembling gaze. The Lieutenant carefully helped his commander up, warry as to not pull a nerve and cause her pain.

Reana, in searing pain and entirely lost to the fog of war, followed the throngs of white-clad soldiers as best she could. CT-1298, assisted by the surviving clone sergeants, rallied the remaining troopers and desperately organized a fighting retreat while being constantly assailed by the encroaching Geonosians.

"Double time it to friendly line!" The Lieutenant cried out as things became increasingly bleak. Reana pushed through the pain for dear life. As Republic line became less distant in the horizon and the vibration of the Geonosians' wings increasingly faint, Reana took the risk of looking back. CT-1298's lifeless body lied on his back, facing the enemy. His hands were holding a still smoking Z6 Rotary Blaster Canon.

**II**

"Is everything fine?" The medical droid asked in concern, the mechanical tone of his voice had a smooth texture and carried a calming effect to Reana's troubled mind.

The cracks of blaster fire have died away, the shouting of the slaughter was far away from orbit down on the planet's surface; only the silence of the medical bay was present. And yet whilst she was sitting on the side of her bed, she could still recall how every blow jarred her body, how the pain seared her skin, and how they took every bit of illusion she had of being invincible. "Everything is fine," she answered quietly, forcing a smile.

"We have done what we can for your injuries. I will inform you when a bacta tank is available," said the droid. It left Reana to her own devices, having still many more patients that require care.

Reana's thoughts veered towards those who had fell. The captain, whose name Reana had never learned, whom had been steadfast in his deference to Reana's leadership. CT-1298, loyal and selfless, who died in her place making sure that she and what remained of his men live.

This was the first time Reana experienced grief like this. It sneaked up quietly and took Master Sephjet Josall, her teacher and mentor, who meant the galaxy to her, in an instant. She had been in such a denial that she became blind, and over 120 men paid the price. She had failed in the command which she had been assigned to bear, and she now had to make sense of it all.

Reana pleaded so that she could confided in her teacher once more. He always had an answer for her. But she couldn't, for he was gone.

The sobs were stifled at first as Reana attempted to hide her grief, then overcome by her wave of emotions, all her defences were broken as pearl-shaped tears rolled down her cheeks from jade coloured eyes.


	3. On Killing

**I**

Advanced Recon Commando Trooper Designation Alpha-12, armoured in a thin durasteel plate hidden beneath his loose fitting garments and hood, entered the 250 meters long hall with his carbine raised as the vertical grills of gold anodized metal that made up the main entrance slid open with a slight hiss, followed by his four brothers, their DC-15S, flashlights attached underneath, covering every corners of the opulent and far-reaching room. The five ARC Troopers made their way to their target: an archive that stores the information to every transaction going in and out of the banking guild, located on the far side of the hall.

The three-level Royal Administration Building was a quintessence of Naboo architecture. Arches framed in metal with painted tessellation, deep blue floor that shined as well as any polished glass, gold railings under the roof overhang; they all screamed splendour and were astounding contrast to the clinical and dispassionate interiors of Tipoca City on Kamino. With the light of the stars and the planet's three moons visible through the glass roof, the ostentatious great hall, usually hectic with workers, guild members, and functioning staff, was dead silent, as if in remembrance.

As Alpha-12 and the rest began to _stack up_ on the archive's entrance, Alpha-44 _spliced_ into the control terminal with his datapad. With the tools installed in his mini-computer, it took Alpha-44 less than a minute to gain _root access_, change the hourly combination lock and erase all traces of intrusion. Using the key and identification provided by Jango Fett, the ARC Troopers' DNA template and chief training instructor, Alpha-44 managed to pass the other layers of security measures legitimately. However, the door was not the only opposition which the 5 ARC Troopers were going up against. They had been informed that there will be another party going after their target: a team of investigators from the Republic's now dissolved Judicial Forces, handpicked and acting under the order of Former Chancellor Valorum.

Alpha-12 felt the need to move almost without end; if his limbs were moving, he could ignore the tension in his arms and the endless beating of his heart. This will be his first time. He could picture it already – standing triumphantly with his brothers as he led them against their enemy.

Throughout all 7 years of his life, Alpha-12 had prepared for this moment. For 7 years his chiselled body, which had at this point been age accelerated to be biologically 14 years old, was exposed to never-ending training, education, and live fire exercises solely dedicated to the arts of warfare and killing.

Alpha-12 prepared his fragmentation grenade, a cheap handheld explosive device that sends metal shrapnel in a 3-4-meter radius. He nodded to Alpha-44, giving him the go ahead to open the archive. The lock mechanism cranked; a loud bang soon followed as the steel rods crashed against the thick panels. Alpha-12's anticipation reached its climax as the entrance hissed and its interior began to cast a bright beam into the dim hallway, every nerve in his body and brain electrified.

The voice of a man called out from inside the archive, "Republic Judicial. We're armed." Alpha-12 lobbed his grenade through the entrance. "Oh shiii- ", the voice exclaimed before being cut off by the violent eruption that reverberated against the metal walls. The five ARC Troopers visualized the size and shape of the archive as they made entry. Like half liquid flowing seamlessly, their carbines moved to identify and neutralize _immediate threats_.

Alpha-88 was the first to enter, twice did the blast of his DC-15S pound against the walls of the 65 meters long interior of the archive. Following his brothers, Alpha-12 was second to last to enter. He was instantly greeted by a series of an enemy's blaster fire, Alpha-12's peak human reflex allowed him to swiftly leap forward behind a desk and dodged the enemy's field of fire, for every blast his ears violently rang in response, every blaster bolts that zipped by his unhelmet head sent force that felt like powerful punch. With the element of surprise gone, the enemy was now holding the area around the entrance in a _fatal tunnel_, preventing Alpha-44, the last to enter, from making entry. Lying beside Alpha-12, was the carcass of one of the enemies, blaster marks evident on his chest and head. Alpha-12 rummaged through the fallen Judicial's uniform, producing a flash-bang grenade. About 30 feet ahead, to his left, Alpha-67 had manoeuvred to the enemy's flank and positioned himself behind a large marble table. Alpha-12 threw his looted flash-bang grenade to the enemy's approximate potion. The explosive powder ignited with a loud and resounding bang as the fuse struck. Now blind and deaf, the enemy fired his blaster towards Alpha-12 as he retreated further into the archive, towards Alpha-67's line of fire. The enemy fell as Alpha-67 unloaded his carbine. The ARC Trooper then discharged an additional blaster bolt into the enemy's cranium. With an opening now in place, Alpha-44 made entry and leaped behind cover, all the while firing his carbine on the direction of what he had perceived to be enemy movement.

Alpha-12 slowly moved up, carefully navigating the gallery of desks, chairs, tables, and tall shelves of records. While he was without his heads-up display, Alpha-12 was more than capable of keeping track of his brothers' movements. Speaking through action; communicating without the words, nor sight of one another; domination through speed, surprise and violence of action – these were ingrained into the minds of all ARCs.

Running footsteps echoed sharply against the marble tile nearby, triggering Alpha-12's senses ten folds. As they stopped, blaster fires erupted and the lights around him shattered. As he walked in muffled steps and engulfed in darkness, Alpha-12 could taste drying saliva and the sweat trickling down his forehead. He maintained composure despite his epiphany: the enemy had night vision, and could well see him and kill him when he gives away his position. All of a sudden, two shots reverberated and Alpha-12 felt as if a hammer had hit him twice from behind and knocked the wind out of him. As he was about to fall face first on the cold marble floor, Alpha-12 spun at the last second and switched on the flashlight attachment of his DC-15S. The beam cut right through the darkness and engulfed his attacker's night vision visors. Disoriented and unable to get a bead on the ARC Trooper, the man was shot twice in the chest and once in the skull. He fell and toppled a small table as he collapsed.

Powering through the throbbing pain in his spine and ribs with the help of rushing adrenaline, Alpha-12 got up and took cover behind a desk, all the while dodging a series of blaster fire shot through a parallel dull glass wall. Alpha-12 got up, raising his carbine. In front of him was another one of the Judicials, his SE-44C raised as he rushed Alpha-12's position. Alpha-44 fired at the Judicial's feet and ankle from a prone position through the gap underneath a long couch. The Judicial slumped forward as he pulled the trigger of his weapon. Alpha-12 finished him off with two shots of his carbine and moved on to clear the rest of the archive.

Alpha-67 passed by an opening to the left– an entrance into a room divided from the rest of the archive by a series of non-transparent glass walls. A shot rang out that triggered the ARC Troopers into action.

Alpha-67 fell forward and dropped his carbine as a blaster shot through his skull. "Kyr!" Alpha-12 shouted in disbelief. Alpha-04 quickly egressed to secure Alpha-67, Alpha-88 followed shortly behind and dragged his fallen brother behind cover. "He's passed out. It only grazed him, 12!" Alpha-88 shouted.

Alpha-04 moved to engage Alpha-67's shooter and showered them with a series of blaster bolts. The shooter tried to suppress Alpha-04 with a reply of their own, but was ultimately overpowered and retreated into the room with the glass walls. Alpha-04 gave pursuit and fired into the room through the glass walls, shattering thousands of glittering fragments and leaving scorching holes in their place. Opening the door and making entry into the dark room with his DC-15S raised and flashlight turned on, he found his enemy, lying on his chest with blast marks all over his torso. Alpha-04 fired two additional shots into the enemy, thus completing the _dead-checking _on his opponent.

Heavy blaster fire erupted 65 feet away from Alpha-88's position and he was forced to keep his head down behind the archive's index. Alpha-12 fired his carbine their way, taking their attention and giving Alpha-88 the opening to cross exposed ground, throw a fragmentation grenade and leap into cover before the Judicial had a chance to re-aim and take him down. The heavy blaster fire finally died down as the grenade exploded and sent metals, chipped marbles and furniture pieces sprawling in all direction.

Alpha-12 moved up, his boots kissing the tile as he ran, to quickly finish the Judicial. As he pushed off the shattered top of a broken table with one hand, a trunk of an arm pulled at him and held him by the throat. His DC-15S was pushed out of the way before the trigger was pulled, and soon Alpha-12 was wrestling for the control of his carbine with the last Judicial – he laid riddled in metallic fragments and bleeding profusely from one ear. As Alpha-12 desperately fought to relieve his larynx from the Judicial's iron grip with one hand and regain control of his carbine with the other, his hood fell backwards, revealing a tan and innocent face barely out of adolescence, with brown eyes devoid of fear nor malice. The Judicial's expression changed from that of pure anger and hatred to that of shock and utter confusion: "A kid?" Then, as quickly as he could, powered by pure desperation, Alpha-12 moved to free the Judicial's sidearm from his holster. The Judicial was only surprised when Alpha-12 fired two shots into his torso, the Judicial's arms drew limp and awkward. "Wait!" The Judicial exclaimed as the ARC Trooper fired a third shot between his eyes.

* * *

Connecting the archive's central computer via his datapad, Alpha-44 tapped into the archive's database using the access credentials his squad was provided with. Entering a series of queries, he found their objective: records of transfers, all with substantial amounts of credits attached, from an account under the name of a Muun named Hego Damask to a series of different aliases in Coruscant. With all relevant proofs and records deleted, their objective on Naboo was complete.

Beside him, stood Alpha-12, his hand grasping the _identitichip_ belonging to one of the men he had killed. The personalized datacard marked him as a Coruscanti named Exam Devon. He was 39 years old. He joined the Republic's prestigious Senate Guard at the young age of 19, before finally being selected and serving ever since as a Senate Commando 6 years later.

Despite his body feeling as if bruised in every corner, despite the tightening sensation around his neck that comes with every bated breath, Alpha-12 couldn't help but ignore them. It was the first time Alpha-12 had experienced combat, the first time he'd killed. He felt more alive than he had ever been. All other worries and thoughts were muted and there was only that moment.

All 7 years of his life he had trained all day, every day. All 7 years of their lives Jango Fett and the other instructors had lectured him and his brothers on how they were going to be the best soldiers the galaxy has ever seen; the ultimate weapon of the Republic. Then finally came the time to put those words to the test, to prove that they were true. It felt great, uplifting even.

The ARC Troopers had just come up against some of the most battle-hardened fighters in the galaxy. Yet, despite their superior equipment, experience, and training; they were dead. Alpha-12 and his brothers were not. Whatever comes, there would be no regret, nor remorse.

**II**

The sky was a perfect midnight velvet, lighter patches of faint and bold light clustered around Naboo's three moons. The city of Theed was silent and serene, omit the songs of the pelikki birds that came sailing in the breeze and the silent roar of the waterfall cascading over the rocky outcrops in the distance.

Jango Fett pulled out a holoprojector. The small handheld device projected the filtered image of a tall and lithe hooded figure. The man carried himself as a proud warrior with decades worth of battle experience behind him. It was hard to underestimate the man, despite his greying beard. While he is famous for his façade as the charismatic Jedi-turned-statesman who was disillusioned with the corruption and arrogance gnawing at the Republic, the former Mandalorian preferred to address him with his true name: "Tyrannus. It's done."

"Then the secrecy of the clone army remains guarded." He said a matter-of-factly. "And in time, with those records gone, the Jedi will never know how the Kaminoans were paid for their army"

"And now all you need is a war for their army to fight in." Jango said permissively. "There was a firefight. The archive will need a clean-up."

"I will speak to my master. He will make sure that all traces are..removed." Tyrannus replied nonchalantly.

Jango would never admit it, but Tyrannus intimidated him. When the count proposed that he became the genetic template of a clone army, his durasteel plated helm had hidden a mixed expression of surprise and confusion. He had asked for 20 million credits. He didn't think that Tyrannus would agree so easily. The man emanated a sense of power, one which possession and absolute he was certain of; "Maybe I should've asked for more credits," Jango thought.

This was all a job to Jango, that's all. He neither felt pride nor a sense of belonging over his clones – they were the Kaminoans' achievement after all, not his. Some of the trainers felt differently, though. Some of them, most prominently the ones in charge of the ARCs, had even started to give them names – Mandalorian names, much to Jango's dismay. He wanted to see for himself how they would perform in the field.

"Think of it. A Grand Army of the Republic. A show of strength and power like the galaxy has never seen. All stemming from you. How many men can claim such a legacy?" Those were the words of Tyrannus when he asked him to be the template for the Republic's clone army. Despite himself, Jango smirked – just subtly. After what he had seen tonight, those words might ring true after all.


End file.
